


To be Exalted

by Ellisama



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Art by Mitz, Emmeryn Centric Character Study, Gen, Written for FE Writer's Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28390833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellisama/pseuds/Ellisama
Summary: You know how this story ends. This is how it begins: the King is dead, long live the Queen.──The early morning light shimmers in through the stained glass windows, breaking into a thousand colors onto the high walls of the cathedral. A choir of a thousand voices chants an ancient song, sung a thousand times before on a day just like this one. The coronation of the Exalt of Ylisse is a tradition older than the stones of the cathedral, as holy as it is ancient.The soon to be crowned Exalt of Ylisse is neither of those things. She is nine years old, shivering in her pristine white gown, the tears on her cheeks barely dried.“Are you ready?” a kind knight asks as they stand before the doors that will lead her to her future.No,Emmeryn thinks.“Yes,” the crown princess says. “Open the doors.”
Relationships: Chrom & Emerina | Emmeryn
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28
Collections: Fire Emblem Writer's Zine





	To be Exalted

**Author's Note:**

> This was written back in summer for the Fire Emblem writer's zine in collaboration with the wonderful Mitz. Thank you all for having me!

You know how this story ends. This is how it begins: the King is dead, long live the Queen.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The early morning light shimmers in through the stained glass windows, breaking into a thousand colors onto the high walls of the cathedral. A choir of a thousand voices chants an ancient song, sung a thousand times before on a day just like this one. The coronation of the Exalt of Ylisse is a tradition older than the stones of the cathedral, as holy as it is ancient. 

The soon to be crowned Exalt of Ylisse is neither of those things. She is nine years old, shivering in her pristine white gown, the tears on her cheeks barely dried. 

“Are you ready?” a kind knight asks as they stand before the doors that will lead her to her future. 

_No,_ Emmeryn thinks. 

“Yes,” the crown princess says. “Open the doors.” 

The knight doesn’t question her further or ask if she is truly alright. He bows and does as she bids. The word of the Exalt is absolute. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

_When word of their father’s return from the war with Plegia reaches his children, Chrom immediately throws the wooden sword he was playing with on the ground and storms off to meet him. Emmeryn follows him with Lissa, who can barely walk, her heart beating quickly in her chest._

_It has been months since their father returned home. When you’re King, winning a war is more important than raising a child, or so her governess says when she tucks them into bed at night. But Emmeryn has seen the sadness twist into hate on her father’s face after her mother died giving birth to Lissa, and wonders if that is the truth._

_When they reach the courtyard, she expects to be greeted by her father, perhaps drawn into the warm circle of his embrace if Naga is merciful today. Instead, she is met by a deafening quiet, all eyes centered on her._

_Her stomach turns, but Emmeryn keeps walking forward to where Chrom, in all his five-year-old wisdom, is demanding to see their father from the top of his lungs._

_“Where is Dad? He promised to teach me how to fight!” he proclaims, his hands balled into fists._

_Emmeryn silences him with a hand on his shoulder and a gentle smile, before tucking him behind her next to Lissa._

_“Your Highness.” A knight whom she recognizes as one of her father’s oldest friends turns to her and bows deeply, far deeper than appropriate for a mere princess._

_Looking back, that was the moment she knew. But she was still a child then, and a child believes in happy endings, even if they are just make-believe._

_“Sir Gareth, is my father not with you? When will he return?” she asks with a smidge of desperation in her voice._

_He averts his eyes and takes a deep breath. Then he lowers himself on one knee and pulls a sword from his sheath. Only it is not just any sword; the blade of Falchion gleams golden in the dying light of the evening sun, and in its reflection Emmeryn sees herself, tears dripping down her face._

_“No,” she gasps softly, the sound drowned out by her world shattering into a million pieces._

_“The King fell defending his nation from infidels,” Sir Gareth says, his voice thick with grief. “His body will return to Ylisstol soon, but I deemed it... prudent to ride ahead and inform you before the public knows.”_

_He said more that evening, but Emmeryn doesn’t remember a word. What she does remember is the way small hands balled into her gown, Lissa asking what’s wrong while Chrom kept asking over and over again when Father would return. She remembers swallowing her own tears to explain to him that their father was with Naga now, and that they could not visit him there. She remembers holding her siblings through the night, waiting for them to sleep before allowing the grief that clawed at her insides to escape in painful sobs._

_But above all, she remembers Falchion, entrusted to her at the funeral. The weight of a sword that belonged to her father and all the Exalts before him, ending up in her trembling hands._

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

A thousand eyes level on her as soon as she steps into the cathedral, and an unnatural silence falls over the gigantic room as all conversation and singing dies down. Nerves crawl up Emmeryn’s spine, and the urge to turn around and run far away from all those prying, pitying eyes becomes stronger than ever. 

Her eyes flicker to the high arches and the stained glass, depicting scenes from the life of the Hero King. Then, lower, in the crowd, she sees nobles and priests who have seen nary a second of war except the spoils. There are no widows amongst them, no fatherless children save for herself and her two siblings, seated at the front.

She can’t see them from the back of the cathedral, but it doesn’t matter. Their faces are clear in her mind as she steels her heart and wills herself forward. Her feet are small but her footsteps echo through the cathedral as if there is nobody present but her and the Goddess.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

_Her father’s throne is too large to comfortably sit on for a girl of barely ten. Emmeryn feels out of place and out of her element, but nobody seems to mind. Nobody seems to see her at all, actually. She is the Exalt, a beacon of hope and faith for her people. Not, as Emmeryn quickly found out, someone to be consulted about her opinion on matters of state. The only reason she is here is that her generals require her blessing for whatever plan they might concoct. In the absence of the Goddess herself, the Exalt’s word is absolute._

_They are easily thrice, often four times her age, so she listens to them. She lets them speak, trusting that these men and women know best how to rule her country. For months, she holds her tongue patiently while they allocate funds from the church to the war, and doesn't say a thing when they plan their next assault on Plegia. But when they start talking about starving her people in order to feed the soldiers and calculate acceptable civilian losses, that is when she can keep quiet no longer._

_“We will not send any more men to their death,” she says resolutely, hiding her shaking hands in her robes._

_The room falls quiet immediately._

_“Your Grace,” an old general says slowly, looking at her as if she has grown a second head. “I understand your desire to be involved in the delicate issue of war, but this is no children’s game.”_

_Emmeryn nods. “I understand perfectly, which is why I refuse to play with people’s lives as if soldiers were toys,” she says, her voice strong but her knees trembling._

_An old man laughs. “What do you know about war?”_

_Emmeryn swallows deeply. It takes all her willpower not to avert her eyes from this tall, scarred general. But these are her people. She has to do this, not for herself, but for them._

_“It is true that I have never seen battle in my life. I have never claimed a life nor do I ever wish to. I do not know a soldier’s plight,” she admits, growing a little bolder with every word. “But I do know what the children of the soldiers you are conscripting from the countryside will feel when their parent’s coffin returns from the war. I too have lost a father.”_

_An older woman sighs, shaking her head. “Your warm heart becomes you, Your Grace. But sacrifice is part of war,” she says kindly._

_She’s right. Emmeryn has been taught to succeed her father since birth, studying statecraft and religion, but also playing chess. In order to win the game, one must sacrifice the individual pieces._

_She never liked playing chess. “Then we shall broker peace with Plegia. If there is no war, then there is no need for sacrifice.”_

_The old general slams his head on the war table, sending maps and miniature armies flying. “We cannot do that!”_

_Emmeryn flinches, curling into herself._

_Then, a calm voice pipes up from her left. “Why not?” a middle-aged man says. The Hierarch, Emmeryn recognizes, who gained that title after his entire holy order was slaughtered. He has as little taste for war as she does._

_“The Goddess demands the blood of the infidels!” the general bellows._

_“Does she? This is news to me. Did the Voice awaken, and deliver this message while I lay in my bed last night, asleep?” the hierarch says, blinking in mock surprise. “Why was I not informed of such an important event?”_

_The general falters a little. “She... she did not,” he admits, gritting his teeth._

_The Hierarch smiles. “Then in absence of the Goddess, the word of the Exalt is absolute. What do you say, Your Grace?”_

_He is the first person to truly look at her when she speaks, and not to the too large crown atop of her head, Emmeryn realizes._

_Her heart beats loudly in her chest. “I say…” She clears her throat. This time when she speaks, there is no mistake that the Exalt is speaking. “I say we start drafting the treaty here and now. And tomorrow, at first morning light, I will fly to Plegia myself to deliver it. We bring peace, at any cost.”_

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The road to the altar is long, but Emmeryn keeps her head high. The eyes of the crowd burn into her back. She can hear their voices, their doubt at crowning such a young Exalt. If it wouldn’t be prudent to wait a few years. But her advisors had been firm: Ylisse cannot afford to show weakness in the middle of a war. Even if it means crowning a nine-year-old girl Exalt. 

Some want to see her succeed. Some want to see her fail. Most are just biding their time, waiting for the moment that they can jump in to fill the power vacuum her father left behind, smiling at her until she trips up. But Emmeryn grew up in a court of smoke and mirrors, and just because she is young doesn’t mean she doesn’t know how to play the game. It’s all about appearances, about kind smiles and symbolic gestures. The crown is just a piece of gold, nothing more. Her true birthright has been etched into her forehead since the day she was born.

And so Emmeryn keeps putting one foot in front of the other, her face carefully neutral. But it is good to know that some people are truly loyal to her family and will never betray her, like the kind Hierarch who waits for her at the end of the long road to the altar, smiling encouragingly. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

_‘An Exalt is only as good as her word,’ her father imparted upon her when she was nothing but a little princess, playing in his lap. Every day the memories of his smile fade, almost as if it never existed at all, and all Emmeryn can think of is the senseless slaughter and destruction his crusade caused both her people and those of Plegia. Sometimes, after her long days are done and she is alone in a room that is both too big and too empty, Emmeryn dares to wonder if she ever knew him at all._

_She might not agree with his ways, but she does honor his words. As she said, so it happens: Emmeryn flies to Plegia herself with a company of pegasus knights and the Hierarch at her side, white flags raised next to those of her Halidom._

_When the Plegian Hierophant finally agrees to meet, Emmeryn knows he sees neither a child nor a queen. He looks at her and sees a war he cannot win without heavy losses and a sea of blood and corpses, one piled on top of the other. He accepts her treaty without much issue, and before the end of the month, a five-year war comes to an end with the scribble of a pen._

_Her soldiers return home with her, but she is not greeted by applause like she had hoped. The streets of Ylistol are silent as the military parade marches through. There are no spoils to be distributed, no songs of victory to be sung._

_“It was her father’s fault. It was all because of him that our son was killed in battle,” a man yells above the crowd. “And now, she talks of peace and whatnot. Is her Grace playing make-believe?”_

_Emmeryn tries to raise her voice above the crowd, but is completely overshadowed by the rest of them, expressing their doubts. She steps forward in an attempt to be heard. But before she can, out of nowhere, a man screeches and throws a rock at her._

_Emmeryn is too shocked to react until it hits her head, knocking her to the ground. Her crown falls from her head._

_Her guards surround her immediately, but Emmeryn barely notices them over the crippling agony. Pain, not born from the wound on her head, no, but from the way the crowd cheered when she fell, when her blood was spilled. The last thought that goes through her mind while the world fades to black is: ‘Is this what it means to be exalted?’_

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

When she finally reaches the altar, Chrom and Lissa eagerly catch her eyes. They look just as small and out of place as she feels, so she will have to be strong. For them, and for her people, she smiles.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

_Emmeryn wakes up in her own room, surrounded by a veritable sea of flowers. She blinks, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Her head hurts terribly, but not as much as the look of devastation on Lissa’s face._

_“Don’t cry, sweetheart.”_

_Lissa sniffs. “But that will leave a scar...”_

_“Emm, you should stop appearing in public,” Chrom says, sounding far too grave for a six-year-old. “It’s too dangerous.”_

_“It’s all right, Chrom. Surely, they will understand…” she whispers, her voice raspy from disuse. “It’s just that… it will take some time.”_

_Or so she hopes. Some nights she isn’t so sure anymore._

_“What’s peace anyway?” he yells, balling his tiny hands into fists. “It’s just empty words! What’s real is that you’ve been hurt, can’t you see?”_

_When Emmeryn turns to him she sees the deep furrow of his brow and the glint of hatred in his eyes that makes him look more like his father than ever before. She has never been more scared in her life._

_For a moment, she can see the future play out. Chrom, embittered by hatred like the old generals in her council, consumed by blind anger, fighting her wars. Killing in her name, and then dying for it too, along with her many subjects._

_She closes her eyes and takes one deep breath. No, that future must not come to pass, at any cost. And with the clarity that normally only the goddess provides, Emmeryn suddenly knows exactly what her life’s goal is._

_“Chrom… One cannot let hatred rule their heart,” she says slowly, banishing every last doubt from her mind. “I must speak of hope.”_

_Her little brother doesn’t look convinced, so she takes his hand between her own. She reaches deep within herself, and summons all the love and affection for him and for her people, and turns it all into a smile._

_“If there were none who speak of hope,” she says slowly, never letting go of his gaze, “there would only be despair left in our world. And I love you and all of my people too much to allow for such a world like that.”_

_Chrom’s bottom lip trembles, and tears shine in the corner of his eyes. “... Even if it gets you hurt?”_

_“Even then, I must not stop. I will not stop,” she says, growing stronger with each word. “I will not fail.”_

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

She kneels down in front of the Hierarch, like a thousand princes and princesses have done before. For a moment she wonders if they are looking down on her from the heavens, and if so, if they would be proud of her.

Then, the Hierarch speaks. “Emmeryn of Ylisse,” he says, like a thousand priests have done before him at a ceremony just like this. “Do you vow to serve your people first and foremost, no matter the cost and regardless of your personal needs?”

“I do,” Emmeryn vows, closing her eyes. 

“And do you vow to uphold the laws of this country, for they are bestowed upon us by Naga herself, and to speak only the truth even if it leads to your death?”

“I do.” 

“Do you vow to be without fear in the face of your enemies, and to be ever merciful to the helpless, and to always act in a manner that Naga herself would love you?”

Without hesitation, Emmeryn completes her vow. “That I swear.”

She feels the Hierarch’s finger, dripping with sacred oil, touch her forehead, right on top of the brand of the Exalt. 

“Then with the almighty Naga as my witness and solely on these terms, I anoint thee,” he says, and lowers the crown upon Emmeryn’s head. 

It feels heavy, but the weight is nothing compared to the task that is to come, she knows. One that will take her a lifetime to complete.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

_As soon as her health allows it, she returns to the streets of Ylisstol, her head raised high. The scar on her head is still an angry red, peeking out behind her blonde curls. She doesn’t hide it, nor herself._

_Instead she reaches out to the poorest, the ones that suffered the most. She visits the aggrieved orphans as well as the parents who have lost their children. She speaks to the soldiers, maimed and scarred, and helps them in any way she can. She learns who she can trust, and tries to sway those she can’t to her cause. Slowly but surely, her people and her land heals from the wounds of war, flourishing once again in a new era of peace._

_And when she finally meets the man who threw the rock at her years later, he falls to his knees before her, begging for forgiveness. Emmeryn smiles, and grants it without condition. She has long forgiven him, because that is what it means to be Exalted._

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Rise, Exalted Queen of Ylisse, Emmeryn the First!” 

Quickly adjusting to the new weight on her head, Emmeryn raises herself to her feet, knees still shaking. The crowd erupts in cheers and applause, but she doesn’t turn to them immediately. Instead, she looks at her brother and sister, their smiles, the hope in their eyes. Next her eyes flicker to the statue of Naga behind the altar, smiling over her benevolently, almost trusting.

Then, with the power that their love and support bestows her, she finally turns around and greets her people.

“Long live the Queen!” they chant, guided by the choir. “Long live the Queen!”

A thousand expectations have just been laid upon her fragile shoulders, and she doesn’t know if she can live up to the trust bestowed upon her. But for better or worse, the crown has landed on her head, small as it may be.

She steels herself, raises her hand to her people, and _smiles_. 

“Long live the Queen!”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

_Many years later the scorching desert sun makes her crown heat up and burn uncomfortably on her head._

_“No reaction. Was I wrong then?” Emmeryn whispers after her address to the people of Plegia is met with a deafening silence. Nobody, not even Naga, is there to answer her call. “Chrom, this is some torch I’m passing you,” she laments, watching him run towards her, putting himself in danger._

_He has always been reckless in his love, she thinks fondly, and closes her eyes one last time. “So be it.”_

_The old generals weren’t wrong when they said that sacrifice was part of war. She understands now that even as Exalt, she can’t prevent that altogether. But she has become better at chess. The privilege of an Exalt means that she can decide what will be sacrificed, or rather: who._

_‘This is what it means to be Exalted,’ she finally realizes as she takes one step closer to the edge, every footstep echoing through the silence. ‘To be raised high above the rest, perfectly poised to be the first to fall.’_

_Her knees don’t shake and her hands are steady. When she steps over the edge, there is no doubt in her mind, no regret at all. Her last thoughts are that of peace and love._

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You know how this story ends: the Queen is dead, long live the King. 

**Author's Note:**

> I really love Emmeryn, and writing this story reminded me of how much I love gentle yet strong characters like her. Thank you for reading <3
> 
> The beautiful art in this story was drawn by [Mitz](https://twitter.com/mitzoco), please take a look at it! You can find me [here on twitter.](https://twitter.com/ingrimasname)


End file.
